Best Of The Best - Hello Poetry

Apr 2020

Scorpius

I watch him
Emerge,
Over days,
With cracks
And tears,
His new skin
Cranky
And thin.
And I recognize
An old fear
Shimmer through
One iris
Then the next.
And I see him
See me
Watching and waiting,
And I wonder
How many chances
We’ll get.

#hearthurts #addiction #redo

Apr 2020

Tanisha Jackland

Jewish Penicillin

I make mine jewish style
with plenty of root veggies
leeks carrots parsnips turnips
garlic and matza *****
made from scratch
fresh dill for luck
goes a long way

I pray over my ***
It's good for the soul
checks them bones
then the body follows

I become humble again
much aware of the sacrifice
that we may all become
warm soup for something
to heal what is deep inside.

Apr 2020

Camden Michael Jones

The Mail Plane

I.
We ***** our tents on the hardpack
of the town’s airport,
rows of stakes and guidelines
like a fishing wharf in the tundra;
the mail plane comes at one,
an overfull vulture circling above
before looping North towards
the Gates of the Arctic for the approach run.
The landing is
        a front row rock concert
        where the bassist only knows one chord
        and the drummer is still setting up:
        the tone resonates in the ooze of our marrow;
that is to say, the landing is simple,
drifting over alpine fir and spruce tops
with ballet grace
before cutting power
and slamming wheels to gravel.

II.
Yesterday’s rain feeds the Yukon today.
Its hands reach for a hard cloud ceiling
and its lows, its troughs call my name,
call my name, call my name,
endless waves in the river’s center,
arcing with storm energy
and grip strength.

III.
Other planes come, and leave,
and helicopters set down near us.
We play cards in their wind,
drink camp coffee that strains
through the teeth and plugs the gaps;
we watch and we wait
for seats that never come,
waiting to leave this airport runway,
waiting to fight the big fires.

IV.
We hear the boats before we see them,
curving around the clay banks
and we line our packs along
their aluminum walls.
We sit in plastic bags
to keep dry of river spray,
I hear my name again,
and another mail plane
takes off. The hardpack vibrates
under the wheels, the engines scream
their one note show,
and the DC-3 sinks off the runway towards
the Yukon – and us – before catching itself,
then slowly, so slowly we can almost touch
the silver belly, it growls to the North
and loops South towards Fairbanks.

Mar 2020

anthony Brady

AUTUMN IDYLL

Bathed in moonlight
are my love and me.
Under the trees,
rays spreading,
through woodland:
a sylvan canopy of
boughs lighter each day.
Autumnal - not dying,
retiring, destined to return.

Plants and creatures,
taking refuge in
mother earth,
mother nature.
such delight,
each night,
sitting outside,
my Love and me.
together - yet solitary.

No other humans
distracting us.
Silent and still
only nocturnal
creatures stir.
What magic,
what sanctity,
mystical delight.
together with THE ONE.

Our senses feeling our nature,
always here - never apart.
Not fearing death, loving life,
relaxing, laughing, pure and free,
forever more, just being,
revealing the truth of what
we have become,
that which we are
who we always were.

Such sweet life:
my love and me,
sitting here in
this place - this Autumn.

Tobias

Inspired by his poem - The Burning of the Leaves - by Lawrence Binyon

Jan 2020

Sally A Bayan

Late Evening Echoes

* * *
* *
*

Faces of friends, of people i met earlier
are  glittering stars on this late evening's
dark blue sky...their smiles are tattooed
in my mind...they're  hunched, going
lower by the days...slowed down by years.
it must be hard and painful...the arching,
the drooping of the neck, the curving spine,
they endure all, 'til each day's end...they rise
each new dawn...do what they still can do,
lest they stagnate in their aging ponds,
diminish to a state, where food, pills, or
forgotten information are forced on them,
......like drugs, injected into the veins

........................
these wee hours bring back the years...
they  have been good...never mind the
hard times...there were, there are good ones
life is a long, wide stream of changing hues,
flowing on and on....my water bears the
colors each new day brings...gray, at times
with sadness and gloom....other days,
blacked by despair...some summers, red,
roseate with glee, or green with life and
hope...blue, when trust is spilling, and
the tranquil sea and sky overwhelm,
with a promise of stability..........white,
when accepting......the unacceptable...
........................
the amber grains and i, are alike
ripened enough to be plucked
be pulled out from an existence...the
signs are known...shown...yet, i wait
for when it is due to happen...and while
waiting, the stalks sway, play and dance
and enjoy the sun and wind...and i,
while i still can...walk, jump, climb hills
and valleys in this mammoth space
of land and water.............called life
...................
the sounds of my days, i still hear,
i am a lute, a harp, a cello...playing
off-key.....out of tune at times,
my strings are my graying hair,
i still can't stop dying the gray
i still want to highlight the dark,
but, one day, all these will cease...
............
one night, my face will be in one of those
many stars...glittering on a dark blue sky
sending a smile, to my loved ones...
...................
there is no other way, but forward
all are headed....towards an end...

Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
      June 26, 2018

...ahhh, the rains...do make us reflect longer on life...

#facesglitteringstars #agingponds #stream #ambergrains #grayhair #darkbluesky

Dec 2019

r

A wrinkle in time and me

I know you know
this universe is old
and life is but a wrinkle
in time and me, I’m
not yet a twinkle
in my long gone father’s eyes
compared to those blinking night
skies, but let me tell you
friends, when the fog
rolls in off of Dead Woman Shoals
all damp and **** cold
as the nose on my black dog
when it calls out to the moon
its mouth a deep hole, dark
as doom, a howling for
a galaxy, a dying star born
to be swallowed
bones all ribbed and rowed
a wind chime clacking
on the back porch alone
when nary a breeze blows.